Honor Among Takers

On a night like this, with the wind moanin’, the glisten driftin’ agin the door like a stray cat, an’ webs o’ crystal frost creepin’ cross the windowpanes, I feel full shelves to be warm and cozy here by the hearth, with a hot drink and such welcome company. The only thing we’re missin’ is a good yarn.

So, what yarn will it be this night? Wait! I know just the thing.

As my ole paps liked to say, “Oft told yarns blunt the teller’s tongue and the listener’s ears.” So, I’ll spin you a yarn I haven’t spake of in years.

*

Twas the year the great Blood Chief Warhawk was slain, and a few years after the year what Ork and Scrithams made the first Scrithams lights. The small, colorful, magical lanterns floated round Market Square; about half the full brightness they’d gain by Scrithams Eve in two days. Still, they lit the foggy streets in this part of town so that folks walking there ‘bouts found themselves in clouds of blue, green, red, or yellow light depending on where the lights drifted. The square itself had been invaded by a jumble of wood and skin kiosks, as was the custom soon after the festive lights come to be. The brightly painted stalls were stacked side-by-side and back-to-back, forming winding alleys between the facing rows. No two were alike, and the whole gathering provided a broad variety of drinks, foods, games, and goods, in no particular order.

On this evening, despite dense fog and snow-frosted cobblestones, young and old, single and married, all crowded the Winter Festival hoping to spot that special gift or find a missing ingredient for the coming feast, or simply chance into old friends for a laugh, a hot drink, and perhaps a song.

Ork hunted through the maze of temporary stalls. They’d be gone before Scrithams Eve, along with his chance to buy the silver earrings Burkta had been eying and to take something from the few merchants lacking an entry in his Took Book.

His first stop was Plucky’s stall where he chatted briefly and palmed a small stone figurine from the counter. It wasn’t of much value and probably wouldn’t be missed right away, but when it turned up on Plucky’s mantel Scrithams morning, the whole family would celebrate its return and possibly regift it to a close friend at the feast. Ork felt full shelves. On top of the usual thrill of the take, he knew his taking and returning gave greater value and meaning to the mundane in this season, even the tiny trifle now tucked in his pocket.

At sundown, he rounded a river-like twist in the narrow alley between stalls and came to the silversmith’s booth. Even if his shining wares didn’t surround him, Ork would recognize Gint anywhere. His fine, white hair cascaded over his bony shoulders like a frozen faerie waterfall, starkly contrasting his strangely, bluish-gray skin.

He wore the bright metal in his ears, on his fingers, and in bold pieces on his wrists. And around his neck, hung a traditional zook blossom necklace, similar to the one worn by Whitewolf, Rancor’s shaman. Though menfolk seldom wore these relics of the tribe’s past, Gint managed to pull it off faultlessly.

Gint removed the well-chewed licorice root jutting from his lips and flashed a mouthful of horsey teeth. “Ork! I see Burkta wore you down. You’re here for those earrings.” His dry laugh quickly decayed into a cough. “I don’t blame you. If she was my wife, I’d give into her too.”

“She’s your cousin, Gint.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How’s the stomach?”

Gint shrugged. “Like I swallowed caltrops.”

“That’s good.”

“How do you figure?”

“Last month you said it was a bucket of caltrops.”

Gint laughed and then coughed while holding his middle. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Ork grinned and reached across the counter to pat Gint on the back. As he did, he perused the silver trinkets laid out between them. All bespoke of the craftsman’s skill, but one especially caught his eye: an intricately engraved, heart-shaped medallion.

The silversmith straightened, and held up two silver loops by his gray, deeply ridged fingernails. “They’ll cost you more tonight.”

Ork shot him the stink eye. “Why?”

“You should have bought them when you was here with Burkta.”

“I couldn’t get them with her. Not if I want to surprise her!”

Gint grinned. “’Tis funny you think you can still surprise her.”

“I manage. I manage. So why should I pay more today than two days ago?”

“Because I was robbed two nights ago.”

“You too?”

“Aye, my shop. And it weren’t the Scrithams.”

“Oh?”

“They broke some cabinets and tools and left them unmended. Very un-Scrithams-like.”

Ork scratched his chin. This wasn’t his first time hearin’ of brass-faced taking in recent days. Nor was it the first report of breakage. In fact, something valuable had been taken every night for a fortnight. The whole town was gossiping about it, according to Burkta, and he had got an earful of the same at Shady’s, night before last.

“I’ve had the Scrithams take things,” continued Gint, “but never so much at once an’ not once did they break things.”

Ork smiled to himself. He had taken many things from Gint’s house and workshop over the years and returned more than half on Scrithams Eve. The fact that the culprit in this case had broken things pointed to inexperience and impatience. There wasn’t a cabinet in Gint’s shop what Ork couldn’t open as easily as Shady poured drinks.

“And I’m not the only one, you know,” said Gint.

“Really?”

“Why yes! Where have you been? It’s the talk of the town. Half the folk on Bent Hill were hit and even some of the homes ‘round Blacktooth’s lodge. I’m tellin’ ya, Ork, there’s a taker or a gang of takers in town, an’ mark me words, they ain’t done.”

“So how much?”

“Well, I still don’t know all what was taken.”

“For the earrings?”

“Oh. Ten.”

“Ten?”

Gint held up his hands. “Seein’ as you’re almost family … nine, nine.”

Ork gave Gint the stink eye again but pulled out his purse. He hated haggling almost as much as bruss-cabbages, which is one of the reasons he became a taker.

As Ork handed over ten silver coins, he glimpsed another hand slip in under his own and craftily palm the heart-shaped medallion from the soft doeskin tablecloth. It was so artfully carried off that, for an instant, he thought he had done it himself by reflex.

He turned from the kiosk to the bustling stream of townsfolk weaving upstream and down through the alley like steelfins in late winter.

“Da, Da!” said Korka and Isslerud threading through the throng.

Ork’s eyes continued to search the crowd for the taker of the medallion. “Yes, what is it, children?”

“Da,” said Korka, “Can we get a treat?”

Suddenly, a slight, black-hooded figure bobbed out of the crowd, pushed past a couple, and again disappeared into the living river moving toward the exit.

“And here ya are,” said Gint. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”

Ork absently held out his hand and the silversmith dropped in a carefully folded parchment envelope and small copper coin.

Ork handed his children the coin and said, “Go to Kull’s and buy a hot pretzel.” He snagged them by the shoulder before they could escape. “Korka, after Kull’s, take your brother home.”

“But Da, it’s almost dark.”

“You’ll be fine. Take my lantern. Ma will have dinner ready by the time you get there. And by Baldhammer, don’t tell her I let you have pretzels, or she’ll have my hide.”

“Yes, Da,” they said in unison.

Isslerud stared up at him with his dark, almond-shaped eyes. “Does this mean we have to eat the whole thing before we get home?”

Ork looked down at the ever-inquisitive elf child who had grown dear to his heart, yet very little in stature, since the day Ork found him. He grinned and tussled the boy’s hair. “Yes. What you can’t eat, feed to the birds.”

“But when the feral red woodhens got in our field you said you were never gonna feed another bird again.”

“When they devastated our field, I was angry.”

“And you’re not angry anymore?”

“The way I figure it, we fattened ‘em up. Might as well keep ‘em fat till we can eat ‘em.”

The boy nodded. “Oh! That’s smart, Da.”

“Thank you. Now, get your pretzels and get home.”

“Does this mean Ma shouldn’t expect ya for dinner?”

“Yes, Korka.” Orks eyes were once again tracking the taker through the crowd. “I’ve got business to attend to.”

As Ork squeezed through the crowded festival, a voice barked, “Ork! Ork!”

His attention was drawn to a peddler’s wagon parked across the street near the square’s edge. The wagon looked like a giant, pumpkin-orange cask on wheels. Bold, red and white letters on the top read GOB’S GOODS. Below the words, the side split open into two great doors, from which hung a variety of housewares and shelves stocked with clear jars of other valuables.

In front of the wagon stood a squat, chunky fellow with droopy, bat-winged ears, an eye patch, and a slate, widewake hat with the brim turned up on the left side. He stood in a wide stance, with his arms crossed, watching folks pass by. Occasionally, he doffed his hat to potential customers, revealing a deep widow’s peak of spiky black hair.

As Ork approached, a ringtail suddenly emerged from the wagon, barked sharply at a young boy and swatted his hand as he grabbed a handful of silver buttons from a jar on the bottom shelf. The boy jerked back his empty hand as the man’s head swiveled to stare at him.

“You gotta pay for those, boy.”

The ringtail’s gold-brown eyes set in circles of white fur, seemed to hypnotize the child, who gaped at the exotic creature.

The boy cautiously pointed at the animal whose fluffy, ringed tail switched back and forth. “W-what’s that?”

“That is Rena, and she guards my wagon.”

“Can I pet her, mister?” said the lad, slowly extending his hand.

“I wouldn’t advise that. Not if you wanna keep all your fingers.”

The boy retracted his hand behind him and took a step back.

“So, what about those buttons?”

“I just wanted to play with ‘em.”

“Ask you Ma or Da to buy you some.”

The boy nodded and ran into the crowd.

The ringtail leapt from the wagon to the man’s shoulder and sat with her black-and-white tail curled around his neck.

Ork stepped up next to the man, duplicating his stance. “Gob.”

“Ork.”

The ringtail chirped.

“Rena.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Seen a bloke in black, with a hood, come this way?”

“No.”

“What are you doin’ here? I wasn’t expecting you till spring.”

“Your Winter Festival is all the talk in these parts. If Rancor weren’t so remote, you’d have folks from all over showin’ up.”

“The talk in Rancor is about a rash of taking.”

“I heard. ‘Sbad for business.”

“Aye.”

“So it’s not you.”

Ork glared at Gob. A smile slowly split Gob’s face and they laughed.

“So, what are ya thinkin’?” asked Gob.

“New taker here in town, of course. An’ he’s careless.”

“Young?”

“The worst kind of young—greedy.”

“You seen anyone?”

“Maybe.”

“Your bloke in black?”

“Aye. So, what are your plans?”

“I’m here till late on your ‘Scrithams Eve.’  I’ll drop by your place on my way out of town.”

“Can’t stay for the big feast?”

“Naw. Got a big trade in Monger.”

“Better make it very late.”

“Oh? Got plans?”

Ork nodded and started to walk away, but Gob grabbed his arm.

“Ya know? … Twas a young fella did eye my wagon here a bit ago. Could be your bloke.”

“You think he seen your sign?”

Gob looked up at his name in the tall red and white letters. “I don’t see how he could miss it.”

Ork closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead before whispering, “No. The Cant.”

The peddler dropped his eyes to a group of marks on the lowest board of his wagon. To most eyes, they were random scratches, but to a taker versed in their secret signs, they took on meaning: “receiver.”

Gob scratched his chin. “Could be. He went that way.”

“Thanks.”

As darkness fell and the temperature dropped, Ork left the square and caught up with the hooded taker. Keeping a discrete distance, he followed the stranger downhill to the main road. The further they got from Market Square, the fewer Scrithams lanterns there were, and the darker the streets. Folks still at their business here, appeared briefly as they strolled through the colorful pools of light, so Ork didn’t worry about hiding just yet.

He’s headed back to Bent Hill, thought Ork. Still plenty of rich lodges he’s skipped up there.

As the main road passed around the bottom of Bent Hill, Ork’s prey passed beneath the last Scrithams light at the turnoff for the high road and disappeared. Ork carefully approached the corner and peered round it. The high road turned sharply to the right and quickly climbed the hill, but it was vacant. He watched patiently, but there was no movement and few places to hide.

Sputtercap! Lost him. He must be headed for the island and the big lodges.

Ork returned to the main road and tried in vain to spot his target in the darkness ahead. He waited for any hint of him; a flicker of reflected moonlight, a scuffed footfall, a puff of frosted breath.

The tinkle of broken glass drew his attention back to his right, and his eyes fell on Dreg’s Trail, neglectfully squeezed between the rear of houses on the left and the steep rocky hill on the right. He had nearly forgotten the alley was there. Snow crowned the narrow road between muddy ruts as it went over a small rise and down into the draw beyond. The black hood of the stranger retreated over the hill leaving a wispy eddy of fog.

Why should a skilled taker be headed for Hamshackle?

“There’s nothing worth taking,” he said as if addressing his quarry.

As soon as he spake these words, Ork recalled that on one of his few visits to that sad shantytown, he found his son.

“Well … not nothing.”

Ork resumed trackin’ his prey over Dreg’s Saddle into the dark draw below.

Hamshackle had grown since Ork’s last visit, though it was no more prosperous. If anything, it appeared poorer and dingier. Hard-scavenged shacks of branches, skin scraps, and gray, splintered lumber made up most of the expanded area stretching further across and down the draw. Hushed voices lighted on the air, punctuated by occasional laughter or yelling.

There were no festive Scrithams lights here, nor any light, save what moonlight pierced the fog, and the flicker of tallow candles or frugal fires slipping through unplugged holes or gaps in the shanties. The whole haphazard, patchwork of a village seemed to hug the hillside, shamefully hidden from sight in the shadow of Bent Hill.

Ork stealthily followed the stranger in black, down the icy path, to the lowest tier of shanties looking across the draw at Hob’s Thicket. A narrow road cut across the slope at this level and ran all the way ‘round this corner of Rancor to the mill and then followed beside the river to the lake bridge. There were no hovels below this barren strip of dirt, only graves for the dead of Hamshackle and the thicket ranging over the hillside beyond.

The stranger stopped by a cart of firewood parked on the road. He looked both ways, then quietly took an armful of the wood and rushed into a nearby alley what went back up the incline.

As Ork skulked into the alley, he glanced up the hill and caught the glow of light from the high-road lodges atop the bluff. At this steep angle, anyone with a view from those lodges could easily avoid seeing this side of the draw.

The alley branched at an intersection. Ork listened and heard an armload of firewood hit the ground.

He drew his dag, poked a hole in the canvas wall to his right, and watched as the stranger lit a fire in a makeshift stove. He could see little else in the hut save a bed of fir needles stuffed into a moth-eaten cloth.

The stranger pulled back his hood and blew on his hands. He was little more than a boy, still pestered by pimpox. The youth took the silver heart taken from Gint out of his pocket and sat it up on a thin piece of wood above the stove what acted as a mantel. He admired it, warmed his hands by the stove, and practiced palming the medallion and putting it back. After a few rounds, he dropped onto the bed with a sigh.

Ork turned away. This was no icy taker, no threat. This was just a poor kid from Hamshackle trying to break free of his circumstances.

He walked from the alley and started up the dirt road. As he passed the cart, he heard a noise and instinctively hid.

A broad-shouldered, one-armed man exited the pathetic shanty next to the cart, grabbed a few pieces of wood, then went back inside. A barefoot, doe-eyed child appeared at the door flap and pulled it closed.

“Da, I’m hungry.”

“Me too, Da. And cold.”

“So is Maggie.”

“I know, I know,” said the man. “Perhaps I’ll be luckier tomorrow.”

“Did you ask the neighbors?”

“Sorry, Rook. No one in Hamshackle has enough food to share. Everyone is hungry. Let us be thankful to the trees of Witchwood, we have wood to keep warm. And to the widow Glumpot for this bit of goat’s milk.”

“Why did you get milk from a widow, Da?”

“Because, thankfully, in Rancor we can.”

“Do we stand alone?”

“No, Raven.”

At that moment, an infant’s cry erupted from inside, and Ork’s stomach turned.

“Sh-h-h, Magpie,” said the man. “Gumpy gave us a little milk.”

Ork’s feet dragged him to peek through one of the many gaps in the hastily built hovel. Inside, two small boys, twins by the look of them, huddled by a meager fire while the one-armed man cradled a swaddled infant on his lap and fed her milk with a rag. Like the young taker, they had a makeshift mantel. And stuck in the mantel was an unusual wedding knife with bands of turquoise and coral in the handle.

“That’s my girl,” cooed the man. “Drink up.”

The structure of the hut was mostly scabbed lumber held together with scraps of canvas and hide. Ork stared at the little scene. He put a hand on one of the boards and it crumbled and fell away.

The one-armed man turned and spotted him through the opening. Ork jumped back.

“Come in,” said the man.

Ork turned to run and ran into the cart. With no time to spare, he ducked and was about to dive under the cart when the flap opened and light spilled from the doorway illuminating the ground under the cart.

He looked up from his awkward position. The man stood in the doorway with the swaddled child and one of the boys holding onto his leg.

“Come in, friend. You must be cold.”

Ork stood. “Um … ”

“I insist. Grab a couple pieces of wood.”

Years later, Ork could not say whether ‘twas cold, courtesy or cowardice what drove him into the shanty that night.

Inside, the man handed the infant to his sons on their bed near the fire and turned to shake Ork’s hand. He was a huge man and had to stoop to avoid the ceiling. The arm he had left was scarred and ropy and his warm, calloused hand swallowed Ork’s. He wore a broad belt cinched tight against the last of many added holes.

“I am Korvid. This is Raven and Rook. And that little one is Magpie.”

“Ork.”

“Welcome, Ork. Sit.”

“Thank you.”

Ork sat on the floor while Korvid went to the fire and took a blackened pot from beside it. He turned and stooped to hand his guest two cups, then filled them with a hot, greenish liquid from the pot. A long braid fell forward, over his shoulder, decorated with many war tokens.

Ork stared at the tokens, trying to remember if he’d ever seen so many on one warrior. Korvid saw him staring, set the pot down and tucked the braid back into his shirt. He then joined Ork on the floor.

“Where?” said Ork, nodding to Korvid’s empty sleeve. When the burly man didn’t answer, he asked, “Faelendale?”

Korvid stared into his cup. “The Wastelands. That’s where it all started.”

“What?”

“My bad luck. First, my arm, then our crops, and then the fire. We lost everything. Came to Rancor for a fresh start, but there’s no work for a one-armed man, and here we are. Hamshackle.”

Ork sat in silence, then held up his cup. “The Lion of Chalk Downs.”

His host looked up with a surprised expression. Slowly, he raised his cup and tapped it against Ork’s. “Chalk Downs.”

They drank the weak tea and Korvid said, “You were there?”

“Not long. Saw more of Faelendale.”

Korvid nodded, then said, “Wait! Did you say your name is Ork?”

“Aye.”

“As in Ork the Scrounger?”

Ork smiled. “Have we met?”

“No, but Lorn told me all about you.”

“Lorn?”

“Widow Glumpot’s son.”

Ork nodded. “I knew him and his father. Good men.”

“Aye.”

They sat for a while, drinking tea and warming up by the fire as the children fell asleep. At last, Ork turned to his host and said, “Korvid, thank you for your hospitality. I would like to return the favor.”

He stood up and so did Korvid.

“Must you leave? It’s only colder out there.”

“Korvid … I live on the other side of Rancor. I think you and your family should come home with me.”

The man’s jaw tensed, and he glared at Ork. “No.”

“I have a warm house, blankets, and plenty of food. My wife loves to cook.”

“No.”

“Is it your wife? We can wait for her to return.”

“No.”

“Where is your wife?”

Korvid gave Ork a steely stare. “Across the road.”

“I’m sorry.”

Korvid held his hand out and pushed open the door flap.

“I’m from here, ya know. I can help you.”

The proud warrior stood a little taller. The roof above him creaked. Ork nodded and exited the hut. The flap closed behind him.

Ork stared at the shanty, watching Korvid’s shadow on the walls. He shivered, toggled and turned up his coat, and walked away with his hands in his pockets. He walked the dirt road what divided the shantytown on his left from the countless yet lonely graves on his right—the boundary between the striving and the dead. He told himself the dead didn’t threaten him, but he stayed on the left side until the road turned left beside the river.

Paving stones woke Ork from a contemplative trance. His mind was so filled with images of Korvid and his family that he had nearly passed by the mill. The fog hadn’t followed him from the draw.

He crossed the road to the mill, picked the lock on the sliding doors and slipped inside. The mill had been closed since the river froze and would remain unused until the early spring. That is, the miller stopped using it. For Ork, it was the perfect place to hide his took goods until he could return them on Scrithams Eve.

(That clever Ork)

He walked to the corner and pulled back a tarp, revealing his haul for the year. Goods of every description filled cubbyholes meant to store and separate bags of wheat and flour belonging to various mill customers. Ork crossed his arms and admired his loot. A cornucopia of valuables and a yarn of taking behind every one. In a sweeping glance, he relived the thrills of his past year and smiled.

He took the small, stone figurine from his pocket and set it on a shelf. He’d record it in his Took Book later when he returned home. The thought reminded him he had to go through his takings there and prepare them for Gob’s visit.

As Ork rehung the tarp, his mind returned to Hamshackle and all he had seen there that night. He felt a deep, aching hopelessness. He knew the only way to get rid of such a feeling was to feel the thrill of taking something. Whenever he was downhearted, he could always rely on that.

He left the mill and went straight to the island. There was still a blank in his Took Book for Ampleblood’s lodge.

No time like now, thought Ork. Besides, there’s only tonight and tomorrow before Scrithams Eve and I don’t want the new taker to beat me to my prize.

“The new taker!” whispered Ork. “I almost forgot!”

Ork took to the main road and crossed the long, low-water bridge. As he approached the island, he spotted frozen breaths coming from some bushes beside the road. He stayed in the shadows, crept forward, and spotted two of Grimhand’s men. They were huddled together, rocking on their feet and blowing into their hands for warmth.

The game is on, thought Ork. This should make things more interesting.

Ork slipped by the guards and carefully picked his way down the island, avoiding the street what ran its length. He passed Blacktooth’s lodge and waited in the stand of trees between the two great lodges.

He didn’t have to wait long before the bushes outside Ampleblood’s rustled, and a man came skulking round the corner. He was a muscular man, and much taller than Ork had imagined.

Swamp gas! He’s already done it!

Suddenly, the figure tripped and fell to the ground with a grunt. He jumped up, looked from side to side, and started toward the street. After a few steps, he turned back to pick up something on the ground—an axe.

Why would he steal an axe? Wait. I know that gait. That’s Grimhand.

Ork followed long enough to see Grimhand enter the lighted area on the street and turn towards Blacktooth’s lodge. Seeing that the warrior was gone, he went back to Ampleblood’s lodge and went through the back door, as he had done, since installing the lock.

(Clever Ork)

He passed through the kitchen and hallway and into the clan lodge. The ancient wood beams, huge stone hearth, family treasures, and all the hunting and war trophies always made him nostalgic and patriotic, and somehow extra sneaky being there alone and uninvited. He crept directly to the nook where they kept the bronzed dragon fang taken from a fire-breather by Ampleblood’s great-grandfather. He had never dared to take such a rare relic, certainly not for a Scrithams return. And though he hadn’t planned on taking it that year, in the moment, it felt right. It felt like just the thing to shake the uncommon disquiet what had latched onto him since his visit to Hamshackle.

As he reached for the eye tooth, he heard a creak from the hall behind him. Instantly, he backed away, hid behind the shield of a defeated giant, and waited.

There was a soft footfall and then another. They grew closer and Ork held his breath. As he peeked through an arrow hole in the shield, it all felt very familiar.

Standing before the dragon tooth was a black-clad figure resembling the kid he had followed to Hamshackle. This was nearly the exact spot Ork had first seen his son, Isslerud, taking back his family heirloom from the wall. He rubbed his eyes and peeked again as the figure in black brushed back his hood. It was the same kid, pimpox and all.

It can’t be him! He’s just a kid! … An inexperienced, greedy kid.

Ork ground his teeth. He felt disgusted; with the youth and with himself for being taken in.

As the young taker reached for the fang, Ork drew his cold iron dag and snuck up behind him. He clamped his hand over the kid’s mouth and simultaneously stuck the dag under his chin. The lad flinched but quickly realized that Ork had him cold.

“Put. It. Back,” said Ork.

The young taker placed the bronze tooth back in its nook and held up his hands. It was then Ork noticed a brand on the back of the youth’s hand. It was a “T” and old by the look of it.

“We need to talk … outside. We need to be quiet or we’ll both get caught. Understand?”

The kid nodded. Ork removed his hand and took hold of his shoulder, then slid the blade of his dag to the youth’s back, letting him feel the edge of the blade all the way.

Slowly, Ork walked him back down the hall. One of the doors was open as was the window beyond. The lad started for the door.

Ork whispered, “No,” and pushed the boy forward. “Straight ahead.”

As they entered the kitchen and headed for the back door, the youth looked back and his foot kicked a broom what was leaning against the butcher block. It started to fall and they bumped heads as they both made a grab for it. The broom smacked the stone floor with a crack.

“Go,” whispered Ork, pointing to the door.

They exited and he pushed his captive into the bushes. He locked the door behind him and joined the kid.

Once he was sure no one was coming, Ork prodded the kid to a copse of trees away from the lodge. They squatted there on the bluff, overlooking the frozen lake.

“Rancor is not big enough for two takers,” said Ork.

“Then maybe you should quit.”

Ork brandished his dag at the lad. The telltale shine of cold iron glinted in the soft moonlight. The young rogue straightened slightly.

“What’s your name?”

“Skor.”

“Well, Skor, I’ve been a taker for a long time, and I know,” said Ork. “I know how much to take, when to take, and who to take it from. I know how to not get caught or draw too much attention.”

“I ain’t been caught.”

Ork pushed Skor’s sleeve up with his dag, revealing the “T” branded on the back of his hand. “Not here maybe, but you’ve been caught. Where?”

The youth frowned and pushed his sleeve down. “Monger. But that was different.”

“Not different, boy. You’re greedy and careless. And you don’t know your craft. You’re blood to flies.”

“That’s my business.”

Ork’s blade was suddenly at the youth’s neck. “No. It’s my business. You need to leave town. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Get your loot and get out. It’s for your good as well as mine. You don’t know this town like I do. They’re looking for you and it’s only a pinch of time before they catch you in the act or track you to Hamshackle.”

The young taker gaped at Ork. Finally, he said, “Maybe you’re right.”

Ork nodded. “I’m just making sense here.”

Skor stared at the ground. “Alright. I’ll leave.”

“Tonight.”

“Aye. Tonight.”

“Now.”

The kid nodded and Ork removed his dag. The youth got up and walked away.

“Not that way,” hissed Ork. “Stick to cover on this side of the island, stay away from the street as much as possible, then take the back road to Hamshackle. I assume you know the way from there.”

Skor raised his hand, as if tipping a hat, and left. After the lad had a healthy head start, Ork snuck along the bluff, keeping out of sight. He joined the main road at the lake bridge and hurried through the icy air to Shady’s.

*

Ork entered the pub and spotted Glamwart at their usual table with two tankards. The place was quiet for a Fireday night. A trio of farmers sat at the bar yappin’ with Shady while Axegrindel drank by the fire with some familiar faces, but many of the regulars were missing.

Ork sat, picked up the tankard closest to him, took a slug and set it back on the table. Glamwart snatched it and pushed the other grog to him.

Glamwart took a long draw of his grog and plunked it down with a throaty sigh. “I thought you’d never get here. I was so thirsty.”

“You’re always thirsty.”

“Yes, but I’ve been talkin’ and talkin’. I even talked to Shady.” Glamwart leaned forward and whispered, “Everyone is talkin’ about the gang of takers in town.”

“A gang, huh?”

“Aye.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Blacktooth’s men are posted all over town. Those what ain’t on patrol.”

“I see.”

Ork and Glamwart threw down their grogs and ordered two more. They talked the usual flap and Glamwart told the usual jokes, but Ork’s mind kept drifting back to Skor and Korvid.

If I had only taken the dragon’s fang at Ampleblood’s, I wouldn’t feel this way. Blast that kid!

Glamwart had just returned from the bar with their next round when Grimhand entered Shady’s accompanied by three of Blacktooth’s guards and a frosty breeze. The muscle-bound warrior spotted Ork, grinned, and walked toward him, leaving one guard on the door.

“Uh-oh,” said Ork, under his breath.

“What?” said Glamwart.

“He’s smiling.”

“That’s a smile?”

“It is for him.”

“Ork!” said Grimhand, placing his knuckles on the table. “I’m glad I caught you here.”

The two closest guards circled opposite sides of the table to stand behind Ork.

“It’s Fireday night,” said Ork. “Where else would I be?”

The table creaked as Grimhand leaned harder on it. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe breakin’ into homes and taking things what don’t belong to you? … ”

“What?”

“Don’t act innocent with me, Ork. You’ve had my hackles up for years. You may fool Blacktooth with that act, but not me.”

At that moment, the door swung open and Skor entered carrying a black bag.

“Sure is cold out … ” He hesitated when he saw the guard at the door and noticed Grimhand and the others staring at him. “ … there.” He closed the door, nodded to them, then scuttled to a dark table with his back to the wall.

Grimhand returned to Ork. “Someone broke into Ampleblood’s lodge this night and took several treasures.”

Ork shot Skor a black look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been here drinkin’.”

“How long?”

“He’s been here— “

“Not you, Glamwart,” said Grimhand. He shouted toward the hearth. “Axegrindel!”

The drunken ex-soldier looked up from the fire and let out a rafter-rattling belch. All but Grimhand laughed and commented to each other or congratulated Axegrindel on a “good one.”

“When did Ork get here?”

“Ork is here?” said Axegrindel. “Oh, hi Ork!”

Grimhand barked to the bar. “Shady! How long has Ork been here?”

“All his life, I think.”

“No! How long has he been in here tonight?”

The bartender continued to inspect a mug in the light and dry it. He glanced over and said, “About three tankards ago. You want a drink?”

Grimhand waved no and crossed his burly arms. “Search him.”

The two guards behind Ork helped him to his feet and started to search him and his possessions.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” said Grimhand. “You won’t get away with it this year, Ork. Chief Blacktooth and his whole family are still in Monger with the other chiefs and has left me in charge.”

“Congratulations.”

Grimhand made a fist and tensed his jaw, and Ork thought he was fixin’ to hit him.

“You’ve a smart mouth, Ork, but you won’t think you’re so smart when I tell you that you were spotted tonight crossing the lake bridge headed away from the island.”

“So? I was at the Winter Festival and decided to take a walk.”

“That’s in the wrong direction.”

“It was a long walk. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Again, Ork glanced at Skor.

“Guilty conscience?” said Grimhand.

“If you must know, I had a bad crop this year.”

“You’re a lousy farmer, Ork. Everyone knows it.”

“The woodhens took me down to the stalks this year.”

“It’s not here,” said one guard.

Grimhand made eye contact with the man searching Ork’s boots. He shook his head side-to-side and stood.

Grimhand smiled, snatched Ork’s purse from the table and emptied it. A handful of copper and silver spilled out, with one coin escaping to the floor.

The first guard held out Ork’s dag. “He only had this.”

“I had a blade like this many years ago,” said Grimhand. “But the handle was cracked.”

“That’s too bad,” said Ork. “Cold iron is hard to come by.”

Grimhand pinned the purse to the table with the dag and glared at Ork. “I’m keeping my eye on you.”

As Grimhand stormed away, Ork asked, “Exactly what are you looking for?”

The warriors stopped and Grimhand turned. “Why?”

Ork made eye contact with Skor and said, “In case I know where it is. I could report it to you for the reward.”

“Aye,” said Glamwart. “What’s the reward?”

“There’s no reward.”

“Surely Ampleblood can afford—”

“There’s no reward!” Grimhand’s face was red. “How would you ‘know’ where it is, Ork?”

“Maybe I could find it … if I knew what to look for.” He glanced at Skor. “I’m a very good finder.”

Grimhand huffed and left with his men. Ork crossed to the open door and watched them slog back toward town through the frosty wind off the lake.

After he closed the door, he drank from his tankard and told Glamwart, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He tugged his dag from the table and walked over to Skor.

The youth grinned at him. “I’ll take a blood grog.”

“I’m not a waiter.”

“Sorry, old man. I heard you’re not much of a farmer, and I know you’re not much of a taker, so I thought maybe waiting tables was your strength.”

Ork spun at the waist and threw his dag. It flew across the room, struck the bell behind the bar and sank into the post supporting it. Shady glanced up, spotted Ork holding up two fingers and nodded.

Ork sat straddling the chair and stared at Skor as they waited for their drinks. Before the barkeep could arrive, Skor lost his nerve and dropped his eyes. He held his tongue until Shady was returning to the bar.

“What do you want?”

Ork took his dag from the table, sheathed it, and said, “You, out of town.”

“Well, here’s the thing, old man … ”

“We agreed.”

“You had that blade to my throat.”

“And you could find it there again.”

Skor scoffed.

Ork shook his head. “You just had to make one more take, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah. I’m tryin’ to buy my way into the Taker’s Guild.”

Ork curled his lip, then asked, “Why did you go back to Ampleblood’s?”

“That was a ripe plumb. I couldn’t leave it unplucked.”

“And you took the dragon’s tooth?”

“Of course.”

“Forget flies, your drawin’ vultures. You need to get out of town.”

“I don’t want to. Not yet.”

“Look, you’ve got some skill, kid. Go practice in some other town. Go back to Monger.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“You keep sayin’ that. What are you waitin’ for?”

“That’s my business.”

“You’re gonna get caught. If I found you, it’s only a pinch of time before they do.”

Skor took a drink of grog and mulled it over. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should leave. I’ve had a big haul already. Probably more than you’ve dared take in your whole life.”

“Sure.”

The kid took another contemplative drink.

“You can’t spend it if you’re caught or dead,” said Ork.

Skor plunked down his grog. “You worry like an old woman.”

“You gotta learn when it’s time to leave. And my years tell me your time has come.”

“Not yet. I’ve had my eye on another plumb, and I just learned it is so ripe.” Skor picked an imaginary fruit from the air and kissed it. “I’m gonna pluck that sweet plumb before I leave.”

“Please! Listen to reason—”

“Reason? Would you quit with a dream take in your sights?”

“I’ve been in your shoes, kid, and—”

“Look, I’ve scouted this lodge. It couldn’t be riper and it’s the biggest take yet.”

“Oh? What lodge is that?”

“You think I’d tell you, old man? Just stay home and take a nap. Leave the real takin’ to the brave.”

Ork mentally listed all the rich lodges in town and marked off the ones already hit by Skor. There was only one remaining what matched the kid’s boast: Blacktooth’s lodge. He got up and headed for Glamwart’s table.

“You not gonna wish me luck?” asked Skor.

He’ll need more than luck, thought Ork.

He turned to Skor and said, “So what night should I stay home and take my nap?”

The young taker rubbed his lips and focused on the ceiling. “Not tonight, but … tomorrow night. Stay out of my way and, after that, the whole town is yours.”

Ork thought about this timetable. That puts him out of town before Scrithams Eve. If Grimhand can be convinced his prey has left town, he’ll relax the guard or send them out searching the roads and allow me and Scrithams to make our usual deliveries. Or Skor could get himself caught and end Grimhand’s siege. I don’t like it, but the best way to get rid of this snot-nosed lout is to let him make his own mistakes. He’ll out of town or in jail. Either suits me.

He nodded, raised his grog from Skor’s table, and said, “Good luck.”

They clinked their mugs together and drank.

*

The following day, after Burkta woke him, fed him, and handed him a list of ingredients she needed for Scrithams Day, Ork gathered food, extra blankets, and some old wooden toys from their house and headed by horse for town.

“Remember!” she shouted after him. “Fresh kaskan bark! Chessa won’t beat my squealerky pie this year! And don’t dally at Shady’s!”

Ork stopped as he passed his failed field. He looked uphill across the bare stocks poking through the snow, and said, “Useless!” He slogged through the snow to the far side of the field, where it met Witchwood, and tore a few boards from the fence he’d built to keep out feral woodhens. He dragged these to the road, lashed them to the back of his horse, and mounted.

As he turned his horse, the wide gap he’d made in the fence caught his eye. He stared at it and recalled the prolific rafter of woodhens what had invaded the field and stripped it. A smile slowly spread across his lips and up to his eyes.

He went straight to Dreg’s trail, careful to avoid any icy spots, and arrived safely at the lowest tier of Hamshackle. Korvid’s firewood cart was gone. He knocked on the door frame, but no one answered.

An old woman passed by carrying a baby and said, “He took the boys to look for work and get firewood.”

“Is that Maggie?” asked Ork.

“Aye. Korvid leaves her with me sometimes.”

Ork nodded.

“They should be home before long if you want to wait.”

“I just came to bring him a few things. Oh! Here’s some milk for Maggie.”

The woman smiled, bowed her head, and took the milk.

After she returned to her shack, Ork unpacked his horse and carried his load inside. He placed the blankets on the two beds, the food in the corner, and the toys on the mantel next to the wedding knife. He then placed the fence boards against the outside to block some gaps. He started to try and attach them but remembered his errand for Burkta and headed up the draw to Rancor.

He filled Burkta’s list in Market Square and started for home, but his mind drifted and something tugged him back to Dreg’s Trail. The sun was still high over the draw but was on its way down. Its rays reflected off the densely packed roofs of the shantytown like fish scales.

Since I’m here, I might as well drop in on Korvid before I go home.

Not wanting to risk injury to his horse again, he tied the beast to a post and went on foot into Hamshackle. As he neared the lower road, he spotted someone in a dark hood leaving Korvid’s home. Ork recognized him as Skor and hugged the shanties on the right side of the trail to watch.

The ambitious young taker looked both directions, then darted right and ducked into the alley where he had holed up. Ork hurried down the hill and followed him.

Ork skulked up the tiny alley and came to Skor’s place. The upstart’s back was to the door, so Ork drew his dag, sliced the door lash through the gap and entered.

Skor spun round and dropped his loot bag with a clatter, but Ork shoved him into the corner and had his dag to the youth’s neck before he could fully draw his knife.

“Eh-eh,” said Ork. “Drop it.”

Skor dropped his knife to the dirt floor.

Ork gripped his prey’s neck and pulled his blade back, showing him the sharp tip. “What did you take?”

“What?”

“Just now, I saw you leavin’ Korvid’s shack. What did you take?”

“Nothin’.”

Ork squeezed hard and pushed Skor against the corner. “What?”

“All right. All right. I took some food. I was hungry.”

Ork nodded at the floor. “If I search your loot bag, what am I gonna find?”

“Look, I’ll show you. Let me show you.”

Ork kicked Skor’s knife to the door and released him. “Go ahead.”

Skor knelt and reached into his bag. He searched round blindly. There were clanking noises as he moved his hand about in the large bag.

“Just dump it out,” said Ork.

“No. I’m not showing you my haul.”

“Dump it out or I will.”

“Is there no honor among takers?”

Ork chuckled.

“Wait! Here! Here it is,” said Skor, withdrawing a string of three smoked sausage links.

Ork snatched the sausages and sneered at him. “You took this food from starving kids? The children of our people. You have no honor.”

Skor lowered his eyes.

Ork shook his head and left.

As he exited the alley, he spotted Korvid and his sons coming up the dirt road with a load of firewood. He walked toward them and they met as Korvid slipped out of the harness and dropped the yoke of the cart.

“Ork!”

“Korvid. Boys. Any luck today?”

The brawny man shook his head.

Ork held up the links of sausage and said, “This time I brought food.”

Korvid smiled. “Boys, take some wood inside and get ready for dinner.” He opened the door flap and the boys scurried in. He stopped and stared at the newly added fence boards. “Your idea?”

“Just something I found.”

Korvid inclined his head and invited Ork in. “I’ll get Maggie and be right back.”

As Ork entered the little shack, he saw things were tossed round. The food box was knocked over and the blankets on the floor. The boys too were on the floor, playing with the wooden toys he had brought from home.

Immediately, he began picking up the food and other items strewn about. Some of the fruits and vegetables had been crushed and as he made the beds, he realized that the new blankets were gone.

At that moment, Korvid entered with his daughter. He froze in the doorway, staring at the mantel.

Ork looked up. “What’s wrong?”

Korvid’s face went from shock to crimson anger. He set the baby on the bed Ork had just made and grabbed him by his coat front. Before Ork knew what had happened, he was lying on his back in the road. Korvid blocked the sky above him, wielding a club-like hunk of firewood and put his knee on Ork’s chest.

The ex-soldier set down his weapon and searched Ork with his beefy hand. “Where is it?”

The pressure on Ork’s chest made it hard to breathe, but he managed to say, “What?”

Korvid grabbed his front again and raised him from the mud. “The knife, worm! My wedding knife.”

Ork held up his hands. “I didn’t take it. Didn’t take it. … But I know who did.”

Korvid drug Ork to his feet. “How do you know?”

“I saw him.”

“And you did nothing?”

“I didn’t know what he had done.”

“If I learn that you had anything to do with this …”

“By Baldhammer, I did not.”

Korvid narrowed his eyes and finally released Ork.

“Come with me,” said Ork. He turned and ran for the nearby alley with Korvid on his heels. He led the one-armed warrior up the tiny alley and into Skor’s hideout. It was vacant.

“Blast! He’s gone.”

“Who is he, Ork?”

Ork sighed. “A stupid, greedy kid from the city. And when I catch up with him—”

“When we catch up with him…”

Ork nodded. “When I find him, he’ll wish he never set foot in Rancor.”

“Ork, that wedding knife is the last sacred thing I have left of her.”

“I know.” Ork placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “You will get it back. I swear.”

“How will you find him?”

“I found him once. I can find him again.”

“What if he left town?”

Ork scratched the wart on his chin. “The rat hasn’t left town. Not yet.”

*

Ork went home. He greeted his family and ate with fewer words than a possum.

“What’s on your mind, Ork?” asked Burkta.

He looked up from his half-eaten plate.

“It’s not like you to stop eating and talking at the same time.”

“Is it Scrithams, Da?”

“No, Korka, but it’s time I fetched him.”

“Oh, it’ll be nice to have him in the house again,” said Burkta.

“Sure will,” said Korka.

“I can’t wait!” said Isslerud.

“Listen,” said Ork. “I’ve got some other business on the island tonight.”

“The island?”

“I gotta convince a bonehead to outwit me.”

“Good luck.”

“So I’ll be out late with Scrithams. Might even be morning.”

“Of course,” said Burkta. “Just make sure you bring him home. And see if the two of you can remember to wipe your feet this time.”

*

As dusk approached, Ork hastened to the island. He easily spotted and slipped by Grimhand and his men as they were, in his words “hiding in force.” He made his way to Blacktooth’s lodge and surveilled it carefully. Once he made sure Skor wasn’t outside or in, he snuck into the street and waited for a patrol.

“Stop right there!” they shouted.

Ork froze and held up his hands. “What’s wrong?”

The men grabbed him.

“I’m just out for a walk,” he said.

They ignored him, searched him, and took him to Grimhand who guarded the front door with two other warriors.

Grimhand pointed his ax at their prisoner and said, “So, I finally caught you, Ork.”

“Caught me? Doin’ what?”

“Tryin’ to break in to Blacktooth’s lodge.”

“What? I was on the street.”

“He was on the street when we caught him,” said one of his captors sheepishly.

“He doesn’t have anything on him,” said the other.

“Admit it! You’re here to take from Blacktooth’s lodge! We just happened to catch you before you could do it. Wait! You four go inside. Make sure everything is in its place and locked.”

The guards ran inside.

“Grimhand, I—”

“Save your breath, Ork.”

After a short while, the men returned and reported that nothing was missing and the place was locked up tight.

Grimhand frowned. “So … Maybe you’re here scoutin’ the place—learnin’ our patrols.”

“As I told them two, I was only out for a walk and thought I would see if Blacktooth was home.”

“I told you he was away.”

“Sure. At Shady’s. But that was hours ago.”

Grimhand squinted his left eye and curled his lip. “He’s still away.”

“Then I’ll come back later. When will he return?”

The imposing warrior crossed his arms, his ax still in hand.

“He didn’t tell ya, huh?” said Ork.

“I should have you jailed.”

“You sure he won’t be back tonight?”

“Why? What’s so important about tonight?”

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just … our children often get together to play on Scrithams Eve. That’s why I decided to come by tonight. … To see if that was happening … this year.”

A strange expression grew on Grimhand’s face and then the hint of a clever smile around the eyes. “Well, if that’s it … go home, Ork.”

Ork leaned in. “Did you truly think a taker would make a run at Blacktooth’s lodge tonight?”

“I thought you would.”

“Me? I’m a farmer and a fitful tinker. I haven’t got the nerve to be a taker.”

Grimhand chuckled. “You’re right. What I was thinkin’?  Look, men! It’s Ork, the taker with nerves of steel.”

Grimhand and the guards laughed. Ork plastered on a smile and joined them.

“Even if I did have the nerve …” said Ork. “Well, a taker, even the best taker, would have to be daft to try it tonight. You might as well send your men home. I’m sure they could use a break.”

“Send them home, huh?”

“With all your men standin’ guard outside and patrollin’ this week, no one would dare try anythin’ tonight. Of course, you could stay and guard the front door, if you’re worried.”

“Hmm. You know what? They are tired. I’m gonna send the men home. Thanks, Ork.”

“My pleasure. G’night.”

“G’night Ork.”

As Ork walked away, he thought, One trap set. One rat on his way to jail. One flawless Scrithams Eve, in the bag.

(Clever, clever Ork)

*

Ork left Blacktooth’s and hiked into Witchwood. He made a fire in the usual clearing and waited. Scrithams appeared shortly as a ball of light and assumed his usual elfish form, complete with pointy ears and contagious smile.

“More fun?” he asked.

Ork grinned. “Oh yes, but this year it’s … complicated.”

“Oh good. That’s usually the best kind.”

“Come on. Let’s go home and I’ll tell ya all about it. Ya know, Burkta, Korka and Isslerud are gonna be so happy to see you.”

“And I them.”

*

The morning of Scrithams Eve came early for Ork. Not that he woke early—he had been up late with Scrithams after all—but the day had started without him and ran him down like a bull before he was fully awake.

He was greeted by the children playing and laughing with Scrithams near the hearth. He mumbled “g’mornin’,” in passing and poured a tall cup of water. A rush of cold air entered as he opened the front window and grabbed the bowl of snow from the ledge. While he was still washing the sleep from his eyes with snow water, Burkta burst in the front carrying a bag of produce, and fell against the door with her back.

“Ork! Ork!”

He wiped his face with the towel around his neck. “What?”

“You’re not gonna believe what happened!”

“Well? … ”

“Let me catch my breath,” said Burkta, holding her side.

Ork dropped his towel on the table and took a drink of water. “Did you run all the way from the market?” he asked.

She nodded. “Aye. We’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Last night … Grimhand and his men caught a taker in Blacktooth’s lodge.”

Ork sighed with a frown and rubbed his chin.

“Chessa and Gudra say it’s the same taker what’s been takin’ all over town.”

“So, why is this a problem for us? Did he tell them something? Did he hurt someone?”

“I don’t … No. I don’t think so?”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’m gettin’ to that.” Burkta put down her bags and rubbed her hands together as Scrithams and the kids joined them at the kitchen table.

“So,” she continued. “Ninefinger said the guards hid inside and had him trapped in Blacktooth’s lodge, and were about to grab him when he slipped away and dove out a window.”

“So Grimhand caught him outside,” said Ork.

“No. Would you believe they chased him through the island woods, onto the main road, where he overturned Hatchet’s cart, crossed the lake bridge, and up the mill road!”

Ork sat up. “And that’s where they caught him.”

“No. That’s where they lost him!”

“What?”

“According to Gudra, some of the men thought he went into Hob’s Thicket and others thought he doubled back, so they split up and continued the search. But they couldn’t find him.”

“So, he got away,” Ork said, staring at his water.

“No! And you’ll never guess where they caught him.”

“On the river?” said Scrithams.

“Oh, I know!” said Korka, “I bet it was the graveyard up the draw.”

Isslerud stood with his knee in his chair. “Was it Hamshackle?”

Burkta looked at Ork who gave her a flat expression.

“I’m not guessin’,” he said.

“They caught him hidin’ in the mill.”

Ork shot to his feet. “The mill!”

“Aye. And they found all the loot what was in there.”

“What did they do with the loot?”

“They seized it.”

“Where did they take it?”

“No one seems to know, but they put the taker in jail. He’s a young man.”

Ork collapsed. And, missing the chair, he fell to the floor. After Scrithams and Burkta helped him into his seat, he slumped forward, with his elbows on the table and his face squished between his fists.

“But it’s Scrithams Eve,” said Korka.

“What are we gonna do?” said Isslerud.

“We can’t return took goods if we haven’t got any.”

‘What are we gonna do?”

Scrithams sat across from Ork and stared at his transfixed friend. “He’ll think of something. He always does.”

*

Ork didn’t move for an hour. At last, he got up, put on his coat, and left. Scrithams ran through the door and caught up to him entering the barn.

“What are you doing?”

“The only thing I can.”

“What’s that?”

Ork threw a saddle onto his horse. “I’m gonna find our took goods.”

“Do you need my help?”

“No. Stay here. We’ve got to go forward with everything I’ve planned. You an’ the children prepare the sleigh and the harnesses and get my Took Book. I’ll be back before dark. An’ if they wanna go to the Battle of Lowbridge snowball fight and snowman competition, let ’em. We can always pick ’em up in town.”

Ork took a heavy sack of seeds and tied it to his saddle. As they left the barn, he scanned the gray sky. “Looks like snow. Make sure we have plenty of it in town tonight. And fog. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

Scrithams nodded and said, “My pleasure.”

Ork took his horse up the road and into his field. He went to the gap in the fence and threw a few handfuls of seed into Witchwood and on the back section of the field. He then used his dag to cut a tiny hole in the corner of the seed sack, and rode back to the road leaving a sparse trail of seeds.

*

On the road to town, a battle-like clamor roared from Shady’s. Ork peeked inside and found Grimhand and Blacktooth’s guards drinking and laughing, slapping backs and fighting, and singing and toasting to their victory. They looked like they’d been there since morning and would probably stay until they all collapsed or Shady ran out of grog.

Ork rode up to Dreg’s Trail and let the wind from the top of the draw spread the remainder of the seed over the path and the rooftops of the shanties below. Being small, light seeds, some made it all the way to the lowest tiers.

He searched the town into afternoon without finding a hint of his loot. He even chanced goin’ by the mill to see if there was anything he could trace from there. But again he found nothin’, not even a guard.

Feeling lost, Ork turned his mount onto the main road and started for home. Where the market road branched off for Market Square, he passed a merchant selling small songbirds in wicker cages. Suddenly, he was struck by an idea. There was still one place he hadn’t tried.

*

“Psst,” said Ork through the thick, iron bars on the back of the jail. “Psst.”

The walls and floor of the cramped cell were all stone. There was an oak door with a barred window in the opposite wall, a straw bed, and a bucket in the corner.

Skor stood up, glanced toward the front of the jail, and came to the window. He had a blanket pulled tight around him and was shivering. Someone with a broad fist had blackened his eye. “Here to say, ‘I told you so’?”

“No.”

“Playing the crow then.”

“No. I’m here ‘cause I’m looking for the loot I had hid in the mill.”

Skor shuffled side to side. “Ha! So that was you. Yeah. I don’t know who was more surprised. Me or the guards. Why were you keepin’ all that in there?”

“That’s my business. Now, do you know where they took it?”

“Maybe. Why should I tell you?”

“Because it’s mine and it’s your fault it got taken. Is it here?”

“No.”

“What did Grimhand do with it?”

Skor blew into his hand for warmth. “That swine told his men to hide it in his private warehouse.”

“Warehouse? … ”

“He’s no different than the warriors in Monger. They take from us what we took by hard work, only they get to keep it as spoils of war! Ha! Some war.”

“What else?”

“When I was taking food in Monger, those vultures even took our food.”

“You were taking food? Why not take jewelry, or anything else, and sell it to buy food? I’ve seen how well you can palm things.”

“I was just a kid. I didn’t have no one lookin’ out for me, I didn’t know any receivers, so I took food.”

“You an orphan?”

“Aye. I guess you find that funny.”

“No. My son was an orphan. Scraping by in Hamshackle when I found him.”

“Then you know.”

“What?”

“An orphan would rather die on the street, cuttin’ it out on their own, than end up in a cage. And I’d rather die than take another brand.”

“We don’t brand in Rancor … ”

“Great.”

“But you’ll probably get the pillory.”

“That’s worse. I gotta get out of here!”

Ork stood on his toes and tried to see farther into the jail. “How many guards?”

“One or two.”

“Which is it?”

Skor scratched his head. “Two, no three.”

Ork frowned and surveyed the solid stonework of the jail. Despite its infrequent use for holding prisoners, the building also served as the armory and had the strongest masonry in town. “With luck, there’ll only be one guard tonight. What else did Grimhand say about the warehouse?”

“Nothin’. He just told the two with him to take the loot to his warehouse and he handed them a key.”

“A key? What kind of key?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did it look like?”

“A key. I don’t know keys. Weren’t many locks in Monger. Not like here.”

“What was the key made of? Wood, iron, brass? …”

“Brass.”

“With a stout loop?”

“Aye.”

“And did it have three bits on the business end like this?” Ork held up three fingers.

“Aye. The middle one was shorter.”

Ork nodded, said, “Thanks,” and walked away.

“Wait. Wait! What about me?”

Ork turned around.

Skor pressed his face against the frosty bars. “I told you what you wanted. Now, get me out of here.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Look-look-look! I’ll make it worth your while.”

Ork took a step closer. “How?”

“They didn’t get my loot. I’ll give you … half if you get me out of here.”

“I don’t know. I have a family … ”

“And I don’t! Come on. Please.”

Ork stared for a long while at the young rogue as he put on the most pitiful face. Finally, Ork took a step back and started to turn. “I can’t afford to get caught.”

“Fine. I’ll give you everything. All my loot.”

“Include Korvid’s wedding knife or there’s no deal.”

“Of course. It’s still in my bag. And you’ll get me out of town.”

Ork scratched his wart.

Skor reached through the bars. “I’ll tell you where I hid my bag when I’m on my way out of town.”

“I think I know a way to get you out of town. It’s getting you out of there what worries me.”

Ork turned and walked away.

“Hey! Where you goin’?”

“I’ve got business to attend to.”

“But—”

“And I need to be alone to figure out how to get you out of there.”

“So it’s a deal?

“I agree with your terms.”

“Shouldn’t we shake on it?”

“I don’t shake without a plan.”

*

After dark, under cover of Scrithams’ patented snow and fog, Ork, Scrithams, Korka, and Isslerud sleighed into the small warehouse district of Rancor, a short distance from the mill. There were four rows of tightly packed wooden warehouses facing two streets, with narrow alleys running behind each.

Ork pulled the sleigh to a stop near the rear of the district, behind a small, barn-like building marked with a thirteen.

“How do you know this is it?” asked Scrithams.

“Because I made the locks for many of these, and the only one what uses a brass key with three bits is this one. It used to belong to Grimhand’s uncle Flintjaw who died a few years back. I only put together that he’d left his warehouse to Grimhand when Skor described the key.”

“So why are we in the back? You could easily open the lock.”

Ork grinned. “There’s a slim chance we could run into a patrol.”

“In this weather?”

“I won’t take that risk with the kids.”

“How are we getting in?”

“I’m glad you asked.”

As soon as Scrithams lit up his ears and magicked some boards off the back of the warehouse, Ork entered. It was an open cobwebbed space, with a few odds and ends laying about. A small pile of lumber was stacked to one side and a number of woodworking tools and farm implements hung on the wall. Everything was coated by several years of dust. Visible scrapes and footprints led from the front door to a tarp-covered heap in the center of the floor. Ork removed the tarp and found his loot in a neat pile.

The four of them formed a line and quickly ferried all the loot into the sleigh. It was a tight fit, but Ork didn’t want to chance leaving any of it for a second trip. As they were leaving, he stared back through the opening at the tools and pile of lumber.

“What’s wrong, Ork?”

He shook his head. “If we only had more time … ” he said absently.

“Should I put the boards back?”

Ork nodded, adjusted his lucky hat, and mounted the sleigh. “Where’s my Took Book? We’ve got deliveries to make.”

*

They made their rounds through Rancor, returning Ork’s took goods to mantels and shelves in their original homes. Some folks were in, some out. Some slept while others celebrated Scrithams Eve. Where folks still stirred, Isslerud and Korka went ‘round front and diverted them with falalas and good cheer while Ork and Scrithams snuck in the rear.

During the run, Scrithams noticed that Ork was not his usual jolly self. He wasn’t smiling or joking. In fact, he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.

“What’s bothering you, Ork?”

“Can’t help thinkin’ ‘bout that kid in the jail.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I have an idea, but the crux of it hangs on him.”

“And you don’t trust him.”

“’bout as far as I can throw an anvil. Question is, will he trust me?”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll need you to light up your ears again.”

“Oh! That sounds fun.”

Scrithams’ fog and snow proved quite effective in hiding them and their tracks through town. When the sleigh was empty and the children half asleep, Ork asked Scrithams to take them home to their mother and meet him behind the jail with the sleigh. He kissed Korka and Isslerud goodnight, then made his way to Market Square.

*

Ork knocked on the back of Gob’s wagon, which was parked in Market Square with the horses hitched. Amber light and the smell of spices spilled out from inside as Gob answered the door. He was bundled up and had a cup of hot mulled wine in one hand. Rena sat on his shoulder and scurried around his neck to get a better look at their visitor.

“Gob. Rena.”

“Ork! I was just about to leave. I thought we was meetin’ you at your place.”

“Change of plans.”

Gob scanned left and right. “Problem?”

On cue, Rena stood on her hind legs and sniffed the air.

“Not exactly,” said Ork, “but I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Rena gave a short, growly bark.

“A favor? You know I don’t do favors, Ork. Not even for old, trusted friends.”

“I’d like you to take a special cargo to Monger for me.”

“And I’m not a currier.”

“Your going that way.”

“I go a lot of ways.”

“I’ll pay.”

“Coin or … ”

Ork pulled a silvered drinking horn from his coat. Gob took it and examined it by the light from his wagon. A bird of prey was carved near the mouth and faceted jewels sparkled from a decorative band circling the middle.

“Warhawk’s horn?” said Gob.

“Aye.”

“How long have you had this?”

“A long time. It was a prank, but now that he’s dead, I think it’s time it resurfaced.”

“I can’t take this. It’s too much—too hot. Especially now.”

“You can handle it.”

“Where am I gonna find a buyer?”

“In Monger.”

Gob’s eye widened. “No.”

“Think about it. His family will be happy to take it back.”

“They’ll be happy to take my head.”

“Not if you tell them you took it for them from Coyote Clan.”

“You’re Coyote Clan, ain’t you?”

“And that’s the only part what’s true.”

“So … then what?”

“You give it to them.”

Gob’s shoulders fell. “Where’s the profit in that?”

“They’ll be obligated to reward you. And I’d wager the reward will be much more than the horn’s worth.”

Gob licked his lips and stared at the horn. “That might work, but … ”

“If you’re afraid … ” Ork reached for the horn.

Gob jerked the horn back. “No. No. I didn’t say that. So, what’s this cargo and who am I supposed to give it to in Monger?”

“No one.”

“Huh?”

“Delivery will take care of itself.”

Gob squinted one eye, but then he grinned. “You always play close to the chest, Ork.”

“Only with old, trusted friends, Gob.”

Gob chuckled and handed Rena the horn. The ringtail clutched it to her chest with one paw and sprang away into the wagon.

“Rena approves. So, where’s the cargo?” asked Gob.

Ork nodded up the street. “Let’s take a little ride.”

*

Ork directed Gob to the alley behind the jail and told him to wait. He then hopped down and went to the window.

“Psst! … “Psst!”

Skor came to the window. “I almost gave up on you. I was ‘bout to offer my deal to the guard.”

“What stopped you?”

“Trust a guard? … ”

“There’s only one man then?”

“Aye.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tahank.”

“Good. That gives my plan a better chance.”

Skor eyed the wagon behind Ork. “You brought tools, huh?”

Ork looked over his shoulder. “No. The wagon’s your ride out of town.”

“You’re gonna cut through the bars or break the stones, right?”

“Too noisy. Besides, why go to the trouble when you can go out the front door?”

Skor shook his head. “Are you playing the crow now?”

“No.”

“He’s not gonna let me walk out the door.”

“Trust me. You’ll go out the front door tonight, if you do as I say.”

“What do I have to do?”

“After I leave, make lots of noise and call the guard. When he comes back, you throw your bucket on him and insult him.”

“He’ll kill me!”

“There is a risk that he’ll rough you up a bit.”

“A risk? It’s a sure thing! Have you seen this guy?”

“When he comes in the cell, say you’re sorry and tell him—”

“You’re trying to get me beat up.”

“No. Tell him you’re guilty and want start to serving your punishment tonight.”

“My punishment? Tonight?”

“He’ll take you out front and put you in the pillory. That’s the usual punishment for taking in Rancor. It’s too cold and he’s too lazy to want to stick around and watch you, so he’ll go back to his warm fire an’ grog, an’ fall asleep.”

“So you want me to freeze to death, locked in your pillory.”

Ork shook his head and sighed. “I can unlock that pillory with my eyes closed.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be watching from down the street, but I won’t wait all night.”

*

Ork sat with Gob on his wagon and watched the front of the jail from down the street. Gob poured them both a cup of hot mulled wine.

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

Ork shrugged. “I would. But so far, the kid hasn’t shown much sense.”

Suddenly, the door to the jail flung open and light spilled into the street. Skor flew out the door headfirst, into the snow. The strapping warrior, Tahank stomped down the steps, grabbed him by his collar and pants, and tossed him to the foot of the pillory. Before the young rogue could rise, Tahank put his boot on his back and unlocked the pillory. He then swung open the boards, picked up his prisoner like a rag doll, and locked him in place.

Tahank walked into the street and quickly made a half-dozen snowballs, which he flung at Skor’s head. He dusted the snow from his hands and marched back in the jail, stopping briefly to kick Skor in the rump.

“Now?” said Gob.

“No, wait. Let’s give him some time to think.”

“You think the guard will change his mind?”

“No. I’m talking about the kid.”

They sat quietly watching Skor and sipping on their mulled wine. When their cups were empty, Ork said, “Now.”

Gob urged his team forward and stopped his strange wagon in front of the jail. Ork hopped down and trotted to the pillory.

“Skor, this is Gob. Gob, Skor.”

The well-bundled peddler nodded and said, “Good evenin’,” through his muffler.

Skor craned his neck against the pillory and feebly waved. He twisted his bruised face toward Ork. His teeth chattered behind a freshly split lip. “You said you weren’t gonna wait all night.”

“There’s still some hours till daybreak. I can come back later if you—”

“No, no.” Skor hung his head and said, “Sorry.”

Ork unlocked the pillory and released the young rogue. While Skor straightened his back and shook off the snow, Ork closed the boards and reset the lock. He then hurried the lad to the rear of the wagon and opened the hidden hatch to a smuggler’s hole in the lower corner.

“Climb in there and keep quiet. Gob will see that you make it to Monger.”

Skor poked his head into the hatch. “Kinda cramped in here, and dark.”

“Hurry.”

“Can’t I just ride in there?” Skor pointed to the rear door.

Ork gestured to the hole. “It’s only till you’re well out of town and past any patrols.”

The youth frowned and crept feet-first into the narrow space. As Ork readied to close the hatch Skor said, “Thanks.”

“Don’t come back.”

“You kiddin’? You couldn’t drag me back here.”

“Where’s your loot?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s in the Hamshackle graveyard, straight across from the alley what you found me in. I buried it in a pile of red-brown rocks. Smooth, like river rocks.”

Ork nodded, said, “Good luck,” and locked the secret hatch in place.

“Wait,” said Skor. “I think there’s something in here.”

Ork smiled, rapped on the back of the wagon three times and Gob took off.

Suddenly, from within the wagon came chirping and barking and muffled screams.

“Ouch! Hey! Make it stop!”

Gob slid open the small window at the front of the wagon and shouted in, “Rena. Rena! Stop that. He’s a guest.”

There was one more bark and Skor yelled, “Ouch!”

Ork watched the orange wagon vanish into the fog and falling snow, and walked behind the jail. Scrithams was waiting in the sleigh.

“Home?” asked Scrithams.

“No. Back to the warehouse.”

“I take it the fun isn’t over.”

“Not yet. We’ve got three more stops to make before we call it a night.”

*

Ork and Scrithams made three more stops in town: Grimhand’s warehouse, Hamshackle, and Ampleblood’s lodge. They then headed for home.

They came to Ork’s field a short while before dawn. The largest rafter of feral red woodhens Ork had ever seen wandered around, pecking through the snow for the seed he’d left them. None had followed the trail onto the road.

“Stop the sleigh.”

Scrithams stopped and Ork stepped out.

He yanked off his lucky hat and struck his thigh with it. “Bungle!”

Scrithams tied the reins and went to Ork’s side. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“They’re just roamin’ around my field.”

“You want me to chase those birds back into Witchwood?”

Ork rubbed his head. “No. Might as well let them … Wait. How would you chase them?”

“Why the usual way.”

“Waving your arms and chasin’ after them?”

Scrithams nodded.

“Well, as fun as that would be to watch … could you use your ears?”

“I suppose.”

“Do your ears have enough left to say … chase them with an imaginary pack of wolves?”

“An illusion?”

“Aye.”

“Sure. I can start right now.”

Ork put his hand on Scrithams’ arm. “Good, but rather than send them back into the scrith, can it chase them into Hamshackle and onto the shanty roofs?

Scrithams smiled and said, “My pleasure.”

*

Scrithams morning, the air was crisp and the sky clear. Many folks of Rancor eager to share company, food, and stories of what the Scrithams had returned, gathered early in Market Square and began setting up for the festivities.

Inside the town hall, they set all the tables and benches for the feast. Outside, they put out braziers for heat, roasters for meat, and tables for serving up dishes from salty to sweet. While Ninefinger supervised the fires and cooking the meats, Kull lit his ovens and baked many fresh loaves and treats. Before long, the whole square smelled of savory food.

Ork and his family showed up early too. Once again, Scrithams joined them disguised as Ork’s cousin, Scritch. While Korka and Isslerud built a snowman with some other children, Burkta showed off her new earrings to Chessa and worked with her and Hamfist on decorations. Ork and Scritch set up their Scrithams tree and volunteered to help Shady out, stacking up kegs of blood grog and stout.

In the middle of the activities, Hamfist, standing atop a ladder yelled, “Hey, look!”

Everyone outside turned to see Blacktooth’s party ride and sleigh into the market square. Upon seeing their chief, the crowd let out a joyous shout. “Kurah! Kurah!”

“We’re so glad you made it,” said Ork.

Blacktooth stepped down from his sleigh. “You didn’t think I’d miss judging the food, did you?”

Just then, Isslerud and Korka ran between them. They shouted, “Tauna, Tauna!” and embraced the chief’s elfish daughter.

Ork smiled. “Scrithams Day just wouldn’t be the same without you, Chief.”

Blacktooth and Ork shared news and chatted while their children, eager to see each other after such a long break, played Chase the Dragon and got into a good-natured snowball fight with the other children.

Grimhand stumbled up the street and into the midst of their skirmish. He grumbled as he was pelted by one snowball, then stopped and growled at the second strike. The uneasy silence was broken by a giggle and suddenly all the children had the same target. The hatchet brothers were nearby and joined in. Grimhand’s hulking form was battered from both sides and he made a run for it. He exited the gauntlet plastered in snow.

The chief called out to him, “Grimhand!”

He looked up as the last snowball blasted the back of his head. The grave warrior shook it off, stomped his feet, and brushed the snow from his furs as he approached. His coloring was greener than usual and his eyes were bloodshot. “Yes, my chief. I wish you had sent word that you were returning.”

“Ork was just tellin’ me a taker was ravaging our town while I was away, but you managed to catch him.”

Grimhand glanced suspiciously at Ork, then said, “Yes, my chief.”

“And not only him but all the things he took.”

The red-eyed warrior looked down, licked his lips and finally said, “We have not found all the items taken, my chief.”

Blacktooth slapped his first warrior on the back and said, “Well done, just the same.”

Grimhand winced at the jarring strikes.

“Did you celebrate a bit too much last night?”

“Yes, my chief.”

“Well, it looks like there’s plenty of time before the food is ready for the contest and the feast, so why don’t we go to the jail and take a peek at your prisoner and his loot?”

“Um …” started Grimhand. “The loot isn’t at the jail, my chief.”

“Oh? That’s the safest place to store it until we can figure out who it belongs to.”

“Well, I was … worried someone might try to take it from the jail … so I hid it in a warehouse.”

“Interesting strategy,” said Blacktooth. “Well, you can show us the warehouse after the jail.”

“Yes, my chief.”

“Ork, why don’t you and your cousin come along.”

“What about the children?” asked Ork.

“Let ‘em play. We’ll be back soon enough.”

*

At the jail, they soon discovered that the prisoner had miraculously escaped while locked in the pillory.

“He said he wanted to start serving his punishment,” said Tahank.

“Last night? In the snow?”

Tahank swallowed hard. “Well, he-he threw his bucket on me!”

Grimhand glared at him. “And then he escaped. On your watch.”

The guard lowered his eyes. “Yes. … But I swear I locked him in the boards.”

Ork looked up from examining the lock. “He might be telling the truth. There’s fresh blood, and the pillory is locked. That takes a key. Unless … ”

“Unless what?” asked Blacktooth.

“Well,” started Ork. “I was gonna say, unless the Scrithams released him.”

“Why would they do that?” exclaimed Grimhand.

Blacktooth steadied his first warrior with a hand. “The Scrithams are mysterious spirits. Who can explain what they do?”

“Indeed,” said Ork.

“Come,” said Blacktooth. “Let’s see the loot.”

Grimhand grumbled but led them away to the warehouse district. He walked to the rear of the district, to the building marked with a thirteen and pulled out a sizable brass key.

“Whose is this?” asked Ork.

“Thirteen,” said Blacktooth. “This was your uncle’s, wasn’t it?”

Grimhand said, “Aye. It came to me after he died.”

“Well, let’s see the loot.”

Grimhand took the key, inserted it into the lock, and twisted. The entire front of the building swayed and fell back into the footprint where the warehouse had stood. It crashed to the floor, simultaneously raising a dust cloud and splashing slushy snow against the neighboring buildings.

Grimhand gawked at the collapsed structure. He stepped forward and stumbled onto the downed door, gazing at the alley behind and the warehouses on either side. The walls of his warehouse hadn’t fallen, they were simply gone. His eyes followed the vacant space up, until he was staring slack-jawed at the open sky.

“Termites?” said Ork.

Blacktooth grinned at him and broke into laughter. “Termites!”

Ork and Scritch joined him.

The chief shook his head and said, “I suppose you’re gonna tell me the Scrithams did this too?”

Ork shrugged. “Who else?”

“Come, Grimhand,” said the chief. “Let’s go back to the feast.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Grimhand. “It was right here. The loot was right here. Right where I’m standing.”

“And so was your warehouse.”

The beefy warrior scanned around him again and finally said. “Yes.”

Blacktooth walked onto the fallen warehouse front and took Grimhand by the arm. “Come on. You’ve had a busy couple of days. You need some rest.”

Grimhand nodded and they left for the feast.

*

When they got back to Market Square, a great many people was sitting, talking, and milling about. It was the biggest turnout they had ever seen. The men were bringing out every spare table and bench they could find.

“What’s happening?” Blacktooth asked his wife.

Tigara smiled and took her husband’s arm. “It’s the people from Hamshackle, my love. They’ve never shown up in this number before.”

“Where are our children?”

“Oh. When we saw how many of the Hamshackle children were shoeless and poorly clothed, we sent our own children home to get any shoes or clothes they had outgrown. They should be back soon.”

Blacktooth examined the children from Hamshackle. Most clung timidly to their parents. He had never seen them, nor most of their parents.

“How could this happen?” he said.

*

The contests and feast began. Many of the usual contestants won with a few exceptions. The judges awarded two of the prizes to two newcomers from Hamshackle; one for her juicy roast woodhen, and the other for her spicy green been grout. The Fastest Dish, which was the only “people’s choice” award went to Widow Glampot for her buttery mashed roots. And last but not least, Ork’s family reclaimed the prize for Best Scrithams Tree, after the previous year’s upset.

As Ork collected the prize from Blacktooth, Korvid approached him.

“I want to thank you,” said Korvid. He opened his furs to reveal the wedding knife tucked in his broad belt. “And for the blankets.”

Ork scanned the people around them and leaned in. “No thanks are needed, my friend. Say, have you met the chief?”

Ork turned the warrior to face the main table. “My chief, this is Korvid, the man I told you about.”

Blacktooth stood and reached across the table to clasp arms with Korvid in greeting.

“Chief Blacktooth, I am honored.”

“Korvid, I am the one honored. When can you start?”

“Start?”

“I have just returned from Monger where we elected a new Blood Chief. The news there is grim and training our warriors is more important than ever. I’m putting you in charge, if you agree.”

“But—”

“I know who you are, Korvid, and, one arm or two, you’re the best man for the job.”

Korvid smiled. “I can start in two days. I need to work on my house.”

“Make it a week, but come by the armory tomorrow afternoon and we’ll get you sorted.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

“Now, please enjoy the feast.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Ork put his hand on Korvid’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you and your family come eat with us at our table.”

Korvid bowed his head and collected his family. No sooner had Ork made introductions than Burkta eargarly rested little Maggie from her father’s arm, saying it would give him a chance to eat. She cooed and fawned over the baby as if she were her own and hummed while she fed her fresh milk. The child’s brothers, Rook and Raven were fast at their food and enjoying Korka and Isslerud’s company as if they were lifelong friends.

As mouths got fed, backs clothed, and bare feet shod, all the folks of Hamshackle relaxed and began to tell wild tales of wolf packs chasing woodhens onto their roofs in the cold morning light, and waking to find piles of lumber, roofing, and tools in their community.

“We’re gonna have a new roof and solid walls, for the first time in a long time,” announced Korvid. “And so will many of the folks of Hamshackle.”

Ork raised his tankard to Korvid and Scritch and toasted. “To new roofs and walls.”

“New roofs and walls.”

“People told us about the Scrithams, but we couldn’t have imagined … We are very grateful to them.”

“To the Scrithams!”

“The Scrithams!”

“The Scrithams!!” echoed the crowd around them, raising their drinks.

Ork winked a Scritch and they clinked their tankards together again.

“So what happens now?” asked Korvid.

Ork grinned. “Now, we drink as much grog and eat as much squealerky pie as we can.”

“I can put away squealerky pie,” said Korvid.

“Oh? You’re on,” said Ork.

“What?”

“That sounded like a challenge.”

“Honestly, Ork,” scolded Burkta, shaking her head. “Any excuse … ”

“It’s fine, good wife. Just a friendly challenge. What kind of friend would I be if I backed down now?”

Some time later, with a teetering pile of empty pie plates and tankards before them, Ork, Scritch, and Korvid pushed back from the table, holding their full bellies with contented smiles. Seemingly unable to speak, they put their feet up, watched the dancing and other festivities, and gradually fell asleep.

As Ork closed his eyes, Hamfist, Chessa, and the elder Tusints walked by the three of them..

“I think this is the best Scrithams Day ever,” said Chessa.

“Aye,” agreed her husband.

Tusints paused, frowned at Ork, and said, “Ya know, for someone who loves Scrithams Day as much as he does, he doesn’t do much to help out.”

An irresistible, full-shelves grin crept onto Ork’s face.

“He does have the best-decorated tree … ” replied Chessa.

“And the prize to prove it,” said Hamfist.

Tusints humphed. “And if there was a prize for eating the most squealerky pie, he’d win that too.”